Runaway Mistress: The Mafia Boss Begs On His Knees

I woke up to the sterile sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic, indifferent beeping of a monitor.

My back felt like it was on fire-a canvas of raw nerves and shredded skin that throbbed with every shallow breath I took.

I tried to move, and a involuntary whimper escaped my lips.

Dante was there instantly.

He was hovering over the bed, his face pale, his eyes wide with a frantic sort of panic.

"Don't move," he said, reaching out to touch my hand.

I flinched.

My body recoiled from his touch as if he were the one currently holding the whip.

He froze, his hand hovering in mid-air, rejected.

"I saved you," he whispered, the words heavy with a twisted savior complex.

"They wanted to kill you, Elena. I talked them down to the whip."

I looked at him, seeing the terrifying delusion swimming in his eyes.

He actually believed he was the hero of this story.

"Do you believe I hurt him?" I asked, my voice a cracked, dry whisper.

He straightened up, the mask of the Underboss sliding back into place, hardening his features.

"The evidence is absolute," he said.

"Sofia had bruises. The baby was crying. Why do you defy the Family, Elena? Why can't you just submit?"

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, burning their way down my cheeks.

He didn't trust me.

After everything, he chose her lie over my truth.

"Soon, we return to the start," he said, his voice softening once more.

"Just heal. I'll make it right."

A nurse appeared tentatively at the doorway.

"Mr. Moretti? Your wife is asking for you. She's... distressed."

Dante looked at the door, then back at me, torn between his two lives.

"I have to go," he said.

"I'll be back in an hour. I promise."

He left.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Then twelve.

He didn't come back.

The next morning, the doctor discharged me.

It was raining outside-a torrential downpour that turned the New York streets into rivers of grey sludge.

I stood at the hospital entrance, clutching my thin jacket around me, the pain in my back throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb.

Dante was driving.

My heart leaped for a stupid, fleeting second.

Then the passenger window rolled down.

Sofia was sitting there.

She looked at me with a concern that didn't reach her eyes, her hand resting possessively on Dante's thigh.

"Oh, Elena," she said. "You look terrible."

Dante leaned across her.

He held out an umbrella.

"Take this," he said, refusing to meet my eyes. "Wait for a taxi. We have a dinner reservation."

He handed the umbrella through the window.

I didn't take it.

I stared at him, letting the rain soak through my bandages, letting the freezing water mix with the warm blood seeping through my shirt.

"Drive, Dante," I said.

He hesitated for a second, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

Then he hit the gas.

The car sped off, splashing muddy water onto my legs.

I stood there in the rain, abandoned, until I couldn't feel the cold anymore.

I walked.

I walked the three miles back to the estate, every step a torture session, adrenaline alone keeping me upright.

When I finally pushed open the heavy oak doors of the villa, I was dripping wet, shivering violently.

The living room was warm, lit by the soft, golden glow of the fireplace.

I stopped dead in the doorway.

Dante was lounging on the sofa.

Sofia was sitting next to him, her blouse unbuttoned.

She was breastfeeding the baby.

But it wasn't just feeding.

Dante's hand was resting on her breast, guiding the baby's head, his thumb brushing against her skin in a rhythmic caress.

It was intimate.

It was a sacred act of family that I had no part in.

He looked up and saw me.

He didn't move his hand.

He didn't look guilty.

He looked... comfortable.

The soul I thought I had managed to save turned to ash inside my chest.

I wasn't his queen.

I wasn't even his mistress.

I was a ghost haunting a house that belonged to someone else.